No Words
Language is founded
on coincidence. There is no
overarching organization to it.
As the sentiments we
had to express became
increasingly complex,
so did our language become
increasingly elaborate and
specific.
So, it makes sense that,
on nights like these,
when my eyes have given up
and my tongue lies heavy
in my mouth and the quiet
flow of the computer’s glow
warms the side of my pink face,
there are no words
to describe how
I feel. Considering
the constraints and
limitations of language,
I cannot properly articulate
what is happening to me
right now
in this moment.
And so every word I write
is an agreement we share.
You and I. You agree
to let this word mean
what I ask. When I write
“thorny roses” your mind
goes to your grandmother’s
backyard or to the field-trip
you took to the botanical garden,
and my poem moves forward
unhurried and head-bowed.
And each idea I send to you,
you meet halfway, as if
to nod your head and let it pass
or examine it and shake its hand.
But beware the smiles
I paste on my thoughts,
for just as my words
can be blankets, so to
can they be spears
and jagged daggers
and thorny roses,
so pretty and destructive.
This word I’ll
kiss you with, and
this next one I’ll
spit at you or slap you
with and then I’ll
stop. Just
like
that.
And I’ll leave you confused
or comforted maybe
wounded but always
with a full, rounded,
red-cheeked satisfaction that you
try to describe but can’t. You
try to find words inside of
yourself like reaching
your hand deep into a
dark well
but you can’t
because
because there are none.
The well is dry and
there are no words.
--------------------------------------
And this epoch of my journal ends, appropriately, with a lyric from a wonderful song by P.J. Harvey and Thom Yorke of Radiohead fame, called The Mess We're In.
"I'm in New York," Thom sings.
"No need for words now..."
on coincidence. There is no
overarching organization to it.
As the sentiments we
had to express became
increasingly complex,
so did our language become
increasingly elaborate and
specific.
So, it makes sense that,
on nights like these,
when my eyes have given up
and my tongue lies heavy
in my mouth and the quiet
flow of the computer’s glow
warms the side of my pink face,
there are no words
to describe how
I feel. Considering
the constraints and
limitations of language,
I cannot properly articulate
what is happening to me
right now
in this moment.
And so every word I write
is an agreement we share.
You and I. You agree
to let this word mean
what I ask. When I write
“thorny roses” your mind
goes to your grandmother’s
backyard or to the field-trip
you took to the botanical garden,
and my poem moves forward
unhurried and head-bowed.
And each idea I send to you,
you meet halfway, as if
to nod your head and let it pass
or examine it and shake its hand.
But beware the smiles
I paste on my thoughts,
for just as my words
can be blankets, so to
can they be spears
and jagged daggers
and thorny roses,
so pretty and destructive.
This word I’ll
kiss you with, and
this next one I’ll
spit at you or slap you
with and then I’ll
stop. Just
like
that.
And I’ll leave you confused
or comforted maybe
wounded but always
with a full, rounded,
red-cheeked satisfaction that you
try to describe but can’t. You
try to find words inside of
yourself like reaching
your hand deep into a
dark well
but you can’t
because
because there are none.
The well is dry and
there are no words.
--------------------------------------
And this epoch of my journal ends, appropriately, with a lyric from a wonderful song by P.J. Harvey and Thom Yorke of Radiohead fame, called The Mess We're In.
"I'm in New York," Thom sings.
"No need for words now..."